Chapter 1

Evelyn “How would you kill someone without getting caught?” The question echoed through the auditorium, where dozens of students around me raised their brows in confusion. They exchanged silent glances, unsure whether they were really supposed to answer that. I couldn’t help it—I let out a quiet laugh, amused by their reaction. “One of you asked what I do for a living, and this is more or less the kind of question I deal with every day. For a criminologist to study criminals, you have to think like one.” Death lived constantly in my mind. I had spent the last few years studying killers after becoming the sole survivor of one. The Grimwood Ripper. At least, that’s what the media called him. The serial killer who slit every victim’s throat. The one who was never caught. The one responsible for over thirty murders in recent years—all committed with the same modus operandi, always on the same date each year, in the city of Grimwood. Cuts so deep they nearly severed the victims’ heads. Bodies found almost completely drained of blood. Occult symbols carved into their chests. There was a ritualistic precision to the way he operated. An unsolved mystery. I was the only one who had seen him in action—and the only one who walked away alive from the presence of his masked figure. Even after all these years, the faintest scent of damp, dark soil still dragged me back in time, to the Grimwood forest. To the place where I met him. I could still remember the storm clouds and the dense trees where we stood face to face exactly five years ago. That night, I looked into the darkness—and it looked back at me. And it made my mind its home. That fatal encounter brought me here. Standing inside Grimwood University, invited to give a lecture before an auditorium full of students watching me with fever-bright eyes. It would be naive to believe they were genuinely interested in any academic criminology experience I’d gained during the post-trauma years when I drowned myself in study. They were hungry—not for knowledge—but for the monster I had survived. They wanted to know what it was like to stare at a killer and live to tell the story. I suppose our thirst for tragedy is inherent to us humans. It’s safer to peer into an abyss than to fall into it. My studies made me a crime specialist. But surviving a serial killer made me a hero in their eyes. It all started as a thesis—a report about my experience. Then my advisor encouraged me to write more. In his words, if anyone had priority to tell that story, it was me. I followed his advice. It turned me into a specialist in murderous minds—especially the Grimwood Ripper, the topic that brought me the most recognition. My work focused on research and theory: behavioral analysis, motivations, and the social impact of violent crime. Occasionally, I collaborated with police on criminal profiling. But I never worked in the field. Something I was grateful for—because just standing in this massive room made cold sweat gather at the base of my neck and my chest flutter with anxiety. The university’s criminal psychology professor leaned against the door, arms crossed, giving me encouraging nods whenever our eyes met. After reading my articles, he insisted I lecture his students. A blonde girl in the front row raised her hand. I nodded. “Miss Cross, what behavioral traits make the Grimwood Ripper so difficult to capture?” “Well…” I turned toward the monitor behind me, revealing grotesque, uncensored images of his victims. It was easier to answer when I had an excuse not to meet their eyes—even if that excuse was staring at severed throats. “He never left evidence at the crime scenes. No hair, fingerprints, or DNA. Most serial killers leave something behind, either out of ego or carelessness. But not him. It’s almost as if the crimes were committed by an invisible man. “The Ripper is extremely focused and meticulous. The country hasn’t seen a serial killer this relentless and cunning since the Zodiac Killer.” “What does he look like?” another student asked. “Everything we know comes from what I witnessed. A tall, slender man, around six-foot-three. Dressed entirely in black, making it easy for him to blend into the night. Highly agile. He wears a mask covering the upper half of his face.” The students’ gazes went unfocused as they tried to imagine him. “He sounds hot,” a guy whispered to his friend in the back—loud enough for the silence to carry his voice. The girl giggled. “He won’t seem so hot when he’s sliding a blade across your throat,” I said coolly. His face flushed instantly. I clicked to the next slide, revealing photos of the victims. All men. “Careful,” I added with a provocative wink. “You’re his type.” Laughter rippled through the room. “Is there any theory about victim patterns or crime locations?” asked a student with round glasses. “Great question.” I nodded. “Serial killers always have a victim pattern, usually tied to childhood trauma. The Ripper’s victims are middle-aged men who represent authority figures—doctors, fathers, teachers…” “Police officers,” the embarrassed boy interjected. “Or police officers,” I continued, swallowing hard. “Which suggests a troubled relationship with a male authority figure in his past. He’s doing to these men what he did—or wanted to do—to someone from his childhood. “All murders occur here, in Grimwood. Which implies he’s a local.” “It’s been five years since the last killing,” the same student said. “Do you think he’s still active?” “It’s a possibility we can’t dismiss.” Something vibrated in my back pocket—my phone—but I ignored it. “You can find more about my profile of the Ripper in my articles. It began as a thesis, just like yours will this semester.” “Miss Cross,” the blonde girl said hesitantly, “aren’t you afraid he’ll come after you for publishing those papers?” “I’m not afraid of a man who hides behind a mask.” I forced a smile, thinking of my self-defense training and the gun locked in my car. “And if he comes—I’ll be ready.” My phone vibrated again. Then laughter erupted from the back. “Yes?” “What made you study this case—because he spared you, or because he killed your father?” “Enough. Out. Now.” The professor’s voice thundered. Chaos broke out among the students. No one was watching me anymore. I slipped quietly into the sterile white hallway. I pressed my palms and forehead to the cold wall and breathed. Counted to ten. Exhaled. I would never give another lecture. I pulled out my phone. Unknown number. I answered anyway. “Hello?” “Evelyn?” Very few people used that nickname. A familiar face surfaced in my mind—brown skin, graying hair and beard, a badge on his chest. “Alan?” I whispered. “I need you to come back to Grimwood immediately.” “I’m already here.” Silence. Then he murmured, heavy with dread: “Of course you are.” “Alan—what’s happening?” “It’s a call to a crime scene, Evelyn.” My heart dropped into my stomach. Cold fear shot down my spine. I already knew. Still, the words shattered me when he said: “The Grimwood Ripper is back.”